


Regression

by mitzvahmelting



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Canonically De-Aged Bruce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag: Kid Stuff, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan Le Fay's spell takes an extra hour to wear off on humans.  In the last few minutes of that hour, adult Clark is carrying child Bruce out of the Javelin, when Bruce suddenly remembers what it felt like to be held this way by his father.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Clark,” Bruce whimpers, “please, please, just don’t talk. Just let me-” another whine, muffled against the man’s neck, “lie to myself, for a few more minutes.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regression

“Hey, Bruce?” a voice whispers, a warm tone, warm breath ghosting over his ear. “We’re here.” 

Bruce is awake, but he keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t stir from his position, his too skinny arms and legs wrapped around the neck and torso of the man who is carrying him, boyish face nuzzled against his shoulder.

“Morgan Le Fay said it’d take about an hour for the de-aging spell to wear off for humans,” the voice continues, quietly, and Bruce can hear the vibrations in the man’s chest, “so you should be back to normal in a few minutes, okay?”  The man moves, to put Bruce down on the floor of – of – of the Watchtower, yes, that’s where they are… and as the memories flood back, as the context of this moment reveals itself to Bruce’s exhausted, pre-adolescent mind, he flinches and tightens his hold on the man’s neck.

The man hesitates. “We’re here, Bruce,” the man repeats, just as quietly, gentling his charge. “I’m going to put you down now-”

“No,” Bruce says, in a voice that sounds foreign to his own ears, too high and boyish and desperate. “Please, don’t…” he whispers, and presses closer, pulls the miniaturized cowl down from his face with one hand and presses his bare forehead against the man’s neck, warmth where skin meets skin.  He still doesn’t open his eyes, keeps them shut tight against the urge to cry.

“Okay, okay,” the voice says, “I won’t put you down…” and Bruce can kind of sense some frantic gesturing going on around him, something with the man’s hand, the mouthing of words to other people, but he tries to ignore the jostling, he keeps his eyes shut and tries to preserve this pocket of illusion. Of darkness.  Then, the hand returns to Bruce’s too-small shoulders, stroking gentle circles through the – the cape, it’s his cape…

Bruce is crying, now.  He holds back a sob, and it turns into a choked whine. A shiver wracks through him.  He can’t help it, he can’t help the hot tears escaping, hidden against the man’s skin.

“Good _Lord,”_ the man breathes, awestruck, “Bruce, are you alright?”

“ _Clark,”_ Bruce whimpers, “please, please, just don’t talk. Just let me-” another whine, muffled against the man’s neck, “lie to myself, for a few more minutes.”

The man gasps as Bruce’s sobs become uncontrollable, and he suddenly seats them on the floor at the side of the hallway, with his back against the wall and the small form of Bruce cradled in his arms. His fingers stroke the boy’s shoulders, his embrace tight and comforting in its strength, and he murmurs, “Shh, shh, Bruce, it’s okay, you’re okay…”

Bruce – eyes still shut – knots his fingers in the man’s cape and pretends it’s the back of the man’s suit jacket, cries inconsolably into imaginary lapels. The man rocks him, hushes him, begs him to stop crying in a voice that sounds broken enough to mirror the boy’s.

Bruce had forgotten what it felt like to be held.  The boy had forgotten what it felt like to be held. Flashes of it come back to him through his tears – his father’s voice, he can hear his father’s voice, very late one distant night, _“My sweet boy… oh, my sweet boy, it’s alright… just a nightmare…”_

But the imaginary suit, the scent of his father’s cologne… that is the dream.

He lets go of the man, pushes himself away to kneel alone on the floor as the spell warms him, surrounds him, and breaks down.

Himself again, Bruce tries to wipe the tears away with a gauntlet, and he stares at the floor rather than at the Kryptonian.  He pulls the cowl back over his face.

Neutrally, quietly, Clark whispers, “Bruce, what was that?”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, voice deep with age, with a maturity he doesn’t feel right now. “I… was caught off guard. I’d forgotten what it felt like.”

Clark’s hand reaches out to grasp his, squeezes his reassurance.  His eyes shimmer with tears of his own, and he says, “You know I’m here, right?  I’ll… I’ll always be here.  If you need someone.  God, I’ll hug you to your _grave_ , Bruce… you _know_ that.  You have to know that.”

“I know.” Bruce says.  He won’t look Clark in the eyes, but he knows.  On shiver-weak limbs, he pushes himself to his feet, and doesn’t offer to help up the alien.  He turns to head down the hallway.  “I have to go back to Gotham.”

Clark lets out a shaky breath, and remains sitting on the floor. “Yeah,” he says, “okay.”

Bruce pauses at the end of the corridor, and he doesn’t turn around.  Can’t – if he sees him, he’ll lose control all over again. But he does say, quietly, “Thank you, Clark.”

“Anytime,” Superman replies, and takes a deep breath when Bruce finally exits to the transport bay.  “Anytime.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The "I will hug you to your grave" line was lifted from HISHE's "Superhero Cafe: Batman v Superman - It's on!" at the 1:50 mark. I know it's in a totally different context in the HISHE video but that is seriously my favorite characterization of their relationship; it really stuck with me as this kind of lowkey poignant line. 
> 
> As for why I took the one very clearly filler episode in JLU and turned it into a puddle of angst - oh, I couldn't help myself.


End file.
